CSI: Indigo v2
by A Rhea King
Summary: When Greg is brutally attacked, the only case they are solving is who did it and why. As clues lead begin to reveal the killer may be a teenager, the CSI are faced with the reality nothing could have saved Greg that night. Remake of Indigo
1. Chapter 1

**Indigo**

By A. Rhea King

_Chapter 1_

_

* * *

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a remake of Indigo. Had to remove Grissom to re-write the script and I hate leaving a good short story just lying around!_  
_

**

* * *

Greg Sanders remembered her asking,** "**Would you want to know when you were going to die?**"

A man and his friends are passing a psychic window front. They're laughing, carefree.

**She asked, **"**How far would you go to prevent it?**"

They turn back and go inside.

"**Or would you just ignore it?**"** she questioned**

The old, withered woman invites them back for their future reading one at a time.

**He thought about it.**

**He began with,**

"**I heard or read a story about a man that learned when he was going to die.**

They laugh over what they're told. They don't take it serious.

**It was going to be soon. **

The man goes last. The old woman is very serious, very stern about what she has to say.

**His wife was going to do it.**

The man doesn't laugh about what she tells him.

**He could have killed her to prevent it from happening.**

The man goes home. His wife is in the kitchen. His hand reaches out and pulls out a large knife. He walks up behind her.

**But he wasn't a murderer. **

The man hands over the knife so she can cut up the vegetable she has on the cutting board.

**So instead he did everything he could to make her happy. **

He suddenly grabs her, pulls it away, and kisses her. The next day he brings home flowers. The next day it's jewelry. He takes her to nice restaurants, buys her clothes and shoes. They take a bath together. The woman is happy and loves him very much.

**So he woke on that fateful day. He suggested they go out to breakfast.**

The man wakes and smiles. He finds the wife making breakfast and puts it all away. Motions outside. She smiles and nods. But they're both in their pajamas, they need to change.

**He decided to pick up the paper from the driveway. **

Dressed the man goes out to the driveway and picks up the newspaper. He goes to the end of the driveway, his back to the house, and starts reading the paper.

**She went into the garage to pull the car out.**

The wife comes out, opens the garage door, and gets in.

**He waited at the end of the drive, reading his newspaper.**

The woman starts pulling out. She's a careful driver. The man glances back, moves to the edge of the driveway to wait.

**From nowhere, a bird smashed into the back window. **

A black bird slams into the back window. Startled, the wife turns to look.

**It startled the wife.**

Her foot jams down on the gas. The car speeds backwards.

**The man's wife hit him with their car.**

The man turns. He doesn't have time to escape his fate as the car smashes into his body. The newspaper flies everywhere.

**He didn't know when and couldn't prevent it.**"

* * *

Greg Sanders' consciousness slowly shifted from the memory of the story, to a liquid dripping on his face, running across his nose, and dripping off the side. Whatever it was, it had dried there. One of his arms was pinned under him, pressed into something firm and cool underneath him. He felt a hand lying limp on his side. It was hard to breath, the air around him was stuffy, and the salty-sweet smell of blood hung in the air. He felt pain through his entire body but couldn't tell which spot hurt worse.

Something lay on top of him, pinning him down. He turned his head and hair brushed across his face before his cheek came to rest against something fleshy and cool.

He opened his eyes. For a few seconds he wasn't sure he had opened his eyes. All he could see was black nothing. On his right a thin line of light no bigger than a sewing needle flashed. And was gone. Despite how small it was, the light made his headache flare. Greg closed his eyes. He couldn't remember anything. The very last thing he could remember, and even then it was fuzzy, was watching the evening news. It felt like that had happened years ago, even though his logic tried to convince him it was only hours or days at the most. But he didn't know how he got here, wherever here was.

"Hello?" Greg quietly called out to the people under, near, and on him.

They didn't answer. They were dead. He knew that without being able to see them. His instincts told him he was supposed to be dead too. Whatever happened to make his head and body hurt so badly should have killed him.

Greg tried to get to his feet. A wave of dizziness swept in from nowhere and settled behind his eyes. He closed them, waiting for it to pass. But it didn't, it got worse until he passed out from it.

#

Listening to the phone ring and ring did nothing for Catherine's frustration level. The voicemail came on, and cheerily Greg's voice told her, 'You've reached Greg's cell. Leave a message,' before it went to a beep and then nothing.

Catherine reached for her coffee sitting on the hood of her Tahoe. "Greg, where are you? I've been calling you for two hours; dispatch says you've been at 3123 Roper for almost four hours. I have five more calls I need you to work, so you'd better have one hell of an excuse for why it's taking you so long. Call me." Catherine hung up.

She glanced up as her hand brushed the cup a little too close and it flew off the hood. It hit edge of the hood, exploding the lid off and spilling hot coffee down her pant leg. In response to the spilling hot coffee she jumped back and grimaced. Her phone began ringing. She looked at the screen as Nick's picture appeared and then answered it.

"Hey, Nick."

"Have you heard from Greg? I've been calling him for the last forty minutes. I need help on my scene."

"What's wrong?"

"I've got to take a door and it's just me and the officer here. He can't touch it and I can't get this down by myself."

"Well, call Hodges or Wendy. They're cleared to work crime scenes. Or check with Sara or Ray. See if they can stop by."

"Sara picked up three more of Greg's, Ray is picking up anything new coming in, Hodges is helping David and Robbins with bodies. I gave Wendy my Tahoe so she can start collecting evidence and we don't have to stop moving. She should be getting to you any minute now."

"How are you getting to crime scenes?"

"I've designated a uni as my chauffer for the night."

She was impressed by his delegation, considering the night they were having. "Wow. I leave you in charge for an hour and you make me look bad."

He laughed.

"I'll sign off what I can to Wendy and come help you," Catherine continued. "And then you and I can go find out what the holdup is at Greg's scene. And why he isn't answering anyone."

Catherine saw Wendy pulling between two police cars and parking behind her Tahoe.

"Deal. See ya soon." Nick hung up.

Catherine walked toward her, watching her hop out.

"Evidence taxi has arrived. Where do you want me?"

Catherine smiled. Wendy's good mood was too contagious for her to keep cussing Greg out in her head.

#

Greg opened his eyes but his senses took longer to catch up. He smelled the blood again. This time it was dripping across his chest. He felt his hand in a pool of it and the sticky liquid clung to his skin. His memory of what happened the first time he regained consciousness returned and this time he moved slower, feeling his way around the enclosure. He felt at least four bodies, coats hanging from a bar, an umbrella, and a mound of cloth he couldn't identify. He ran his fingers across the wall as he slowly stood. It hurt to put weight on his legs and back, but desperation made him bear it with a grimace.

Overhead he felt a shelf and bar. He guessed he was in a closet or wardrobe. He found a gap and followed it with his fingers, realizing it was a door. He pushed on it but the door didn't budge.

"Hello?" Greg called.

He waited, hoping for an answer.

"Hello?" he called louder.

He heard something. Footsteps? He held his breath and listened. He heard something click outside the door and in the seconds that followed, his mind screamed 'GUN!'

Greg dropped back onto the bodies as bullets riddled the door. The pain from jarring his injuries made his head swim and momentarily paralyzed him, but he knew he had to protect himself from the flying bullets. He grabbed the nearest body and pulled it over him. Most of the bullets went into the back wall, but a few ricocheted. One whizzed past Greg's cheek, searing the skin as it passed. He closed his eyes, waiting. The gunfire stopped.

Greg held still, listening. The footsteps retreated. Greg let out his breath. He tried to push the body off him but found he had no strength left to do it. Suddenly the shooting started again. Greg gritted when he felt something burn into his side. The world spiraled out of control, releasing him suddenly into unconsciousness.

#

Nick and Catherine pulled up outside the house. It sat in a valley at the edge of Las Vegas, the last house on the road. A police car and Greg's Denali sat in front. There were no lights on inside, and no sign of Greg or the officer.

"This is all wrong," Nick said. "Why aren't there any lights? Why isn't the uni out front?"

Catherine grabbed her cell phone from a cup holder, dialed and put it on speaker.

"Dispatch," a woman answered on the other end.

"This is supervisor Willows. We're at 3123 Roper, and an officer and CSI Sander's vehicles are here, but we don't see any indication they are. Did CSI Sanders actually report he'd arrived on scene earlier tonight? Would have been around twenty-two hundred and thirty hours."

"Negative," she answered. "I'm show the dispatch went out at twenty-one hundred and thirty-six hours. You picked it up, assigned it to CSI Sanders, but he never reported that he'd arrived on scene. The last report on that location was you calling in to ask if his GPS showed he was at the scene. That was forty minutes ago."

"Can you tell when the first GPS contact was made at this location?"

"At twenty-one hundred and forty hours."

Catherine looked down at the dash clock. It was now a quarter to five.

Nick asked, "Dispatch, where does CSI Sanders or the officer's GPS show their location now?"

"One moment." There was a short pause. "I'm showing both are at 3123 Roper. I repeat, is there a problem CSI Willows?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Catherine answered the dispatcher. "What was your last report from the uniformed officer that arrived on location?"

There was a pause. "Last report was there was no need for medics."

"When was that?"

"Twenty-one hundred and thirty hours."

"Did that officer report he'd arrived at the location? Were there any problems?"

"What's the problem?" they heard another woman in the background ask.

"CSI Willows is asking about a scene, ma'am. CSI Willows, there was no report of problems. He reported he'd arrived at… He arrived at the location at twenty-one hundred and thirty-two hours. That's only two minutes. Assuming you're at that location, CSI Willows, would he have had enough time to verify there was no need for a medic?"

She looked at the large, two story house.

"Two stories, a basement, who knows what's out back…" Nick shook his head. "No. No way. Not even running."

"This call was a possible 10-27-1. Multiple shots reported. He was within minutes, medics were ten minutes out. Find the call," they heard the supervisor order. "I want to hear him report he's arrived and then cancel medics."

They heard a recording in the background. The officer called in to report he'd arrived. Within a minutes, a voice canceled the medics. The second voice was a young voice trying to sound deep, but nowhere near the officer's tenor voice.

All four on the conversation said at once, "That was not the officer."

"Backup. Now," the supervisor ordered.

"We're dispatching backup to your location," the dispatcher said. "Four units will be at your location in five minutes."

"Send medics too," Nick ordered.

"Dispatching two. First will arrive in ten minutes."

Catherine hung up, staring at her phone.

"Catherine,"

"We have to wait for backup."

"Catherine," Nick said, his tone telling her there was no way he was waiting for backup.

She put her phone on the dash, unfastened the strap on her hip holster and got out. Nick got out, doing the same. The two drew their weapons, moving toward the door. They stood on either side of the door; both noticing it wasn't closed all the way. Nick tapped the center with his fingers and pulled back as it silently swung open. They stared at the blood pooled on the floor. Nick looked up at her.

There was no way she was going to wait. If Greg had seen that, there was a chance he would have gone in despite knowing it was against protocol. She stepped inside, skirting the blood as best she could. Nick was right behind her.

"Greg?" Catherine called out.

To their left, through a large doorway, they heard a floorboard creak.

"Greg? Answer me if that's you." Catherine lifted her gun, flipped the safety, but wasn't going to cock it until she had to.

Another board creaked. Nick cocked his gun.

"If someone is in the house, answer us. Now."

Gunfire exploded from the dark and the two bolted into the nearest room, standing on either side of the door. The shooting stopped.

"Police are on their way!" Nick called out. "Put down your weapon and—"

The shooting started again and this time the bullets penetrated the wall. They dropped to the floor, pushing against the baseboards to avoid being shot. The shooting stopped. They waited until they heard the backdoor slam shut.

Both sprang to their feet and ran out of the room as four policemen and two policewomen burst through the front door. The CSI swung around to aim at the police, who aimed back at them, until both groups realized they were on the same side.

"We heard gunfire when we got here. Are you two okay?" an officer asked.

"Yeah. Someone went out the back," Catherine told them.

Two ran through the house hoping to catch whoever had escaped.

"So this was a crime scene?" one of the women asked.

"Still is," Catherine corrected her. "CSI Sanders and an officer are supposed to be here. We have to find them. Search down here, but don't touch anything. Nick, take the basement. I'll head upstairs. And be careful of evidence, guys."

The officers and Nick left. Catherine started up the stairs.

#

With his flashlight held over his pistol, Nick crept down the steps into the basement. His flashlight kept finding 'Emily' painted on the walls with what appeared to be blood. His mind didn't care about that right now; it was focused on his missing co-worker. The focused beam swung where he aimed it, revealing little parts of the basement. He was expecting someone to jump out around every corner and it made his heart thump in his throat. His flashlight came across a cupboard with a broom stuck in the handles to hold the doors closed. Nick slowly made his way across the room to the cupboard and with the flashlight hand reached out to knock the broom away. He stepped back, waiting to see if anything or anyone jumped out. When nothing happened, he reached out for the door handle.

#

On the first floor an officer came into the kitchen. Blood was splattered across the wall and ceiling, and had pooled at the bottom of the bullet riddled pantry door. On the walls and cupboards was the name 'Emily,' and across the refrigerator was a poem or phrase.

The officer reached out and tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. She pulled again, and then noticed a slide lock had been slid across to lock the door. She reached up to push the lock back…

#

Catherine cautiously cleared the rooms on the top floor. She paused at the first two writings of 'Emily,' and then ignored them. She had to find Greg, evidence would come later.

She entered the first bedroom and was surrounded by the images of a girl caught between a child and teenager. Her trained eyes were drawn to a bloodstain on the floor and then the open closet door. A swatch of blonde hair lay between the door and bloodstain. She guessed someone had been pulled from the closet by his or her hair.

Slowly she moved to the next bedroom. A boy's room. There was blood spatter over everything and a large bloodstain near the door. Whoever had been killed here had been left for a while. There was no closet in this bedroom.

She moved on to the next bedroom: a teenager girl's room judging from the jewelry and makeup on the dresser. Catherine moved to the closet and pulled the door open. On the floor were a bloodstain and a pair of bloody handcuffs. She noticed two voids in the patch of blood. Had the killer sat on his teenage victim while he killed her? Judging from the castoff spatter, Catherine guessed the answer was yes.

She moved on to the last bedroom. There was a large bloodstain in the middle of the bed and one on the floor, also with voids. Dad had most likely been killed in bed but the killer took his time killing, and most likely raping, mom. Catherine moved to the door of the closet and pulled it open. The large walk in closet had been rifled through, but there was no blood. Had the killer been for something or was there a struggle there? She moved to the bathroom, using her flashlight to illuminate the dark room. There was no blood in here and nothing looked disturbed.

Catherine turned and went back into the hall. She walked into the last room in the hall, the family bathroom. There was a large pool of congealing blood in the center of the floor. Who had died here? She saw a Smartphone against the wall and walked to it. It looked like Greg's, but it wasn't powered on so she couldn't verify that.

She turned and paused when her flashlight found a phrase written in blood across the wide mirror: '_when you first see EMILY, you will fear her, when EMILY comes once more, you will breathe no more_.' Who was Emily? Was she one of the women that lived here?

In the mirror, Catherine noticed a blood smear across the floor leading into the hall. She followed the smear into the hall, her light shining on the double doors of the closet at the end. The doors had been showered with bullets and the carpet in front of the doors was soaked with blood. A cut electrical cord had been wrapped around the doors to securely lock them. Catherine slowly approached the closet, reaching for the cord. She suddenly pulled her hand back and fished a glove from her pocket. With gloves on, she reached out again…

#

Nick threw open the door of the cupboard and jumped back when the corpse of a dog fell out onto the floor at his feet. Inside the cupboard was a dead cat.

"Who the hell shoots a cat?" Nick asked the basement.

#

The officer slipped the latch and swung the door open. She stared at a man and LVPD officer lying in blood. Moving around the edge of the pantry, trying to stay out of the blood, she checked for a pulse on both. When she found none, she stood up, leaning back against the shelves to collect herself.

She lifted her radio off her shoulder to her lips. "Dispatch, we need a coroner. Multiple deceased."

#

Catherine unwound the electrical cord and slowly pulled the doors open. She stared at the lifeless eyes staring back at her, and her heart nearly broke. A naked pre-teen lay on the top, her petite body ravaged by her attacker. The teenager and mother were in no better shape. Dumped in the opposite corner was the father with his seven-year-old son. The smell of blood was pungent – in the back of her mind, Catherine knew the entire rug was going to have to pull out of this house. There was no spot cleaning that could get rid of the smell in here.

Her eyes stopped on a wrist sandwiched between the two bottom bodies. With shaky hands she pulled a small Maglight from her vest pocket and shined it on the watch. It was leather and the watch face was metal. At first glance it appeared to be just a nice man's watch. But with the light, it revealed the Tasmanian Devil etched into it. The watch that was the pride and joy of—

"Greg!" Catherine dropped to her knees, pushing the bodies aside.

She didn't give a damn about evidence. She just had to get to Greg. He was at the bottom, his battered body pushed into a small space at the back of the closet. Every inch of his body was bruised, swollen, covered in blood. Broken sections in his skull had made the skin stretch in odd angles. She didn't need a medical degree to tell his arms were broken in many places and covered with dark purple bruises.

Catherine tore off her glove and reached for his other wrist.

"Please, please," Catherine whispered as she pressed her fingers into his skin. The skin was clammy but still had warmth. But relief didn't come until she felt a vein push against her fingers – even if the push was drawn out.

She turned and screamed down the hall, "GET ME THOSE MEDICS _NOW_!"


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

"Greg," a voice echoed and reverberated.

Consciousness began to fade. Then he heard Catherine's voice. "Greg? Can you hear me, Greg? Nick, where the _hell_ is the ambulance!?"

"Repeat medic location?" Nick asked.

"Catherine?" Greg managed to get out.

He opened his eyes but he didn't see her. Standing over him was a blond haired, pig-tailed girl wearing a pink dress and holding a terry cloth cat. She looked like she was five or six. Even if he didn't know how he got here, he knew she shouldn't be.

"Who are you?" Greg whispered to the little girl.

"Lay still, Greg. You're badly hurt," Catherine told him.

The little girl walked away when Catherine leaned into Greg's line of sight.

"Hang in there, okay? Paramedics are coming. Hang on."

He felt a hand take his. "Greg," he heard Nick say. "Greg, squeeze my hand. No, no, no. Greg, don't let go. Hold on, Greg. Greg!"

Catherine's face swirled as dizziness swept Greg away from her.

#

Catherine followed the paramedics down the stairs, watching Greg. She stopped at the back of the ambulance, waiting for them to load the gurney. Catherine jerked when someone laid their hand on her arm, looking right into Nick's worried eyes.

"You have to stay here, Nick. Process the scene. Call Ecklie, tell him what's happened, then—"

"I'll handle it. Go."

Catherine looked away when a tear slid down her face. She got into the ambulance.

Nick watched her lean forward and pick up Greg's hand. Greg had a powder on his fingers, trace that could catch his attacker.

"He has trace on his fingers," Nick called out as the doors closed.

Catherine looked up at him, then down at Greg's hand. She sat it.

"I need…" She started crying. "I have to collect this."

The paramedic next to her stood up and held out a small zipper plastic bag and tongue depressor. "It's all I got."

She took it and brushed the powder into the bag. The paramedic kept working on Greg, doing everything in her power to keep him alive. Catherine pocketed the bag and took his hand again.

#

Consciousness was much harder to regain this time, and not wholly. Greg felt off. He felt like he was floating, chasing after his body. He heard the muffled sound of sirens and felt himself moving. His lower body was numb and his head hurt so bad he didn't think he could bear it.

"Can you hear me, Greg?" someone he didn't recognize asked.

He didn't answer. He was instinctually afraid of this unknown speaker. Was this the person that hurt him? He couldn't remember anything beyond the evening news. Greg opened his eyes a little.

The pig-tailed little girl was the only person he could see. She watched him with an inexpressive face.

"Who are you?" Greg asked her.

"Greg," Catherine said.

Pigtails bouncing, the girl moved back as Catherine came into view. Greg lost sight of her.

"Who is she?" Greg whispered.

Two warm hands wrapped around his. "Greg, look at me," Catherine told him.

Greg's vision slowly focused on Catherine.

"Where am I?" Greg asked.

"In an ambulance. We're headed to the hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

"Sir, can you feel your left leg?" the stranger he'd heard before asked.

"What?"

"Does either of your legs feel strange?"

"Numb."

The world began spinning.

"One leg? Both?"

Thousands of tiny spiders moving at the speed of sound began spreading pain across Greg's body, starting with his headache. Bright spots of light burst before his eyes. He felt as if he was holding his breath and couldn't convince his body to gasp for a new one. An alarm went off.

"Move. MOVE, CATHERINE!" the stranger bellowed. "Andrew, get this bus moving! Greg is not dying on our fucking bus!"

He heard Catherine say, "Greg, stay—"

#

Nick was trying to focus on his job, on collecting evidence. He was trying to forget reviving Greg twice before the ambulance arrived and helping the paramedics in the foyer revive him a third time. He'd come back each time, a sign in Nick's mind he was fighting to stay alive. But it couldn't wipe out the image of how broken Greg was. How savagely he'd been beat, how bones protruded through his leg, arms, and cheek.

Nick pulled a fingerprint card from his kit and looked up. Slowly he looked at every 'Emily' that was painted in blood on the walls. What did Emily have to do with any of this? Realizing he had let his mind be sidetracked – something it was easily doing tonight – he looked down at the fingerprint card in his hand. Nick pulled the tape back from the fingerprint card before he lowered it over the fingerprint on the bedpost. His hands were shaking and he hesitated. He drew a breath but it didn't steady his hands. He decided he had to get the print anyway and moved in for it. At the last second his hands jerked, pulling the tape across the print and smearing it. Immediately he knew he'd lost the print.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Nick bellowed, kicking his kit across the bedroom.

The anger left as fast as it came, leaving him feeling exhausted. He dropped the card as he scrubbed his forehead with his fingers.

Behind him he heard Ecklie say, "Nick, I've brought three swing and two day, and Sara."

Nick put his hands on his hips, but didn't turn. So Ecklie had come to take over? He didn't know if he could handle much more stress tonight and remain civil.

"And?" Nick asked.

"Where do you want us?"

Nick slowly turned, finding them standing in the doorway. Ecklie wasn't taking over the crime scene? He was going to let Nick keep it? And was that… Nick stared at the field kit Ecklie was holding. He looked from it to Ecklie's face.

"Where, Nick?"

"Sorry we're late," Wendy said as she and Hodges appeared at the back. "The media's a circus at the end of the court. Hey Nick. We'll courier evidence so we can get it through faster. Do you have anything for us?"

"No. I haven't even…" Nick turned, staring into the bedroom. He couldn't focus on this. Suddenly he wished Ecklie would take control.

His wish was granted.

"Alison and Jose, head to the basement. Richard and Kipp, take the first floor. Darla and I will cover the perimeter. Is that okay, Nick? That will leave you and Sara up here."

"That's fine."

"Okay, let's get started. We'll have stuff for you two soon."

"We'll wait outside," Wendy told them.

Nick listened to them leave. All except Sara. She walked over and picked up the card, handing it back to Nick.

"He's going to the hospital, right?" she asked.

Nick nodded. He didn't bother hiding his tears from her. She leaned in and they hugged. Nick squeezed her tight.

"He won't make it through this time, Sara."

"You don't know that."

"You didn't see him. You didn't see what they did to him."

Sara closed her eyes, holding on tighter.

#

Catherine didn't see the bright flowers outside the window. Against the darkness behind them, they almost glowed in the light coming through the window. She noticed a reflection in the window and turned. Doctor Ian Cooper stood behind her, staring at the surgical cap in his hand. He looked up at her, and then motioned to the two rows of chairs nearby. Catherine moved to them and the two sat down.

"How bad?" Catherine asked.

Solemnly he leaned forward and braced his elbows on his legs. She sat back, bracing herself for the bad news.

"I was able to stop the internal bleeding, but he lost a lot of blood. The head trauma has caused an epidural hematoma that's causing swelling. I'm doing what I can to relieve the pressure, but Greg went into a coma during surgery."

Catherine turned her head. She lifted her fingers to her lips, rubbed them against them, dropped her hand, and then considered standing and pacing.

"Should I… Uhm… Should I be… Calling his parents, then?"

"Yes. There may not be much time—"

Ian's pager went off and he glanced at it. He looked back at Catherine.

"We'll move him to ICU 4 in a half hour. Two nurses up there know him, he'll be in good care, and I will check up on him as soon as I'm out of my next surgery. If you want to, you can wait in the room for him."

"Thank you Ian."

He reached out, taking her hand. "He found out who murdered Sophia. I won't stop taking care of him until… I have to."

She watched him walk away before looking at the floor. She looked at her phone when it started ringing. She drew a breath and answered it.

"Gil…" Catherine closed her eyes. Her withheld tears began flowing. "You need to come home."

#

In the distance, the sun was rising, lighting the sky with beautiful pastels. The sight was lost to Ecklie. He wanted to curse at the ground he was searching, the bushes that kept snagging his pants, the stones that had scuffed his good shoes, and mostly the asshole that had put Greg in the hospital. But he held his tongue because any of that would show weakness, and he'd suffered enough at his father's hands that he wasn't about to show it now.

"I found a crowbar," the CSI called.

Ecklie turned. CSI Darla held it up for him to see. He hated working with first years.

"And what do we do with evidence when we find it? Do we wave it in the air and let the world know we found it?"

Darla lowered her hand. "No, sir. We bag and tag it."

Ecklie turned around and kept searching. The light of his flashlight sparkled across something in a spiny bush. He crouched down and reached under the brush, grimacing as the thorns snagged his bare skin and tore it. He felt a gun. No. He felt two. He grabbed them and pulled them out.

"Bring me bags," Ecklie called to Darla.

"Coming."

Ecklie didn't turn. He looked up at the rising sun.

"Where are you, you son of a bitch?" Ecklie asked the dawn. He was actually glad he wasn't lead on this case. He might be tempted to provide the attacker with a convenient 'accident' when he or she was caught.

#

Nick walked into the main layout room, watching Wendy placing computer diagrams of the house on the light table.

"Archie sure worked fast," Nick commented.

"You're not the only one that wants Greg's attacker found _now_." Wendy glanced at him.

Nick nodded. He knew that. Every technician, every officer, every CSI on the case had moved this to the top of the list. Nothing else was as important to them as finding out who had hurt Greg. He wondered if Greg realized how many friends he'd actually made in his three years on this job.

"Okay…" She laid a paper in front of her with tiny writing and marks on it, and then looked at the diagrams. Using different colored sticky flags she marked: mom, dad, teen daughter, preteen daughter, son, police, unknown1, unknown 2, dog, cat, and Greg. She tagged the spots on the map.

"Okay…" Wendy said again.

"You said that already, Wendy. Get to it."

She glanced back at him. He was staring at the maps and either didn't know he'd snapped at her or wasn't sorry he had.

She looked at the maps. "We have blood from the officer in the front hall and a blood trail leading to the kitchen. The smear across the floor into the pantry was his, so he must have been killed there. In the hall there are drops from the dog to the basement. From the living room, the cat to the basement. On the steps we have two donors. We have the unknown and Greg. Upstairs—"

"Wait a second. There's drops from Greg on the stairs?"

"Yes."

"Anywhere else downstairs?"

"A large amount by the basement near the washer and dryer, and a trail leading halfway up the steps."

"Go on."

"Upstairs, both daughters' blood came from these two bedrooms and a blood trail to the hall closet. Likely they were carried. The same for the son. Dad's blood is in the bed and was smeared across the carpet to the hall closet. Mom's blood next to the bed and then smeared to the hall closet. In the bathroom, the largest donor was Greg. That's probably where he… Uhm…"

"Move on. You told me there's an unknown one and two. How do you know there were two assailants?"

"Unknown one is the John Doe found in the pantry with the officer. There was a lot of his blood in the bathroom, down the hall, stairs, and right at the back door. The drag mark from the back door to the pantry was his. So he was alive and someone drug him back to the pantry from the back door. We also found hair or skin or both on him from every victim in the house so we know he touched them all. It's not likely he shot himself and drug himself back to the pantry, so that means we have to be looking at a second assailant, a second unknown. And we found blood that came up as unknown from in the upstairs family bathroom where Greg was attacked. He must have gotten a few hits in himself before..."

Nick picked up a stack of photographs, separated by room, and looked at them. He began laying them out on the table, watching the directionality of the drops and smears. When he was done, he stared. Realizing what the blood spatter and photographs were telling him was a hard reality to swallow.

"The only place of the second unknown is in the family bathroom?" Nick asked.

Wendy nodded.

Nick shook his head. No. Greg wouldn't have… "That means… Greg was attacked in the basement, then went upstairs on his own and… Greg… Why the hell did you go up stairs? What were you thinking?"

Wendy looked at the table. "That he didn't want the killer to escape and was doing his job."

Nick almost snapped back she didn't know what she was talking about, but he stopped himself. Greg had risked his life to save other victims, to protect a stranger from being beaten, was it so far of a stretch to think he might have thought he could protected this family if he stopped their killer? 'Oh Greg... What the hell were you thinking?'

#

Archie and Ray scanned fingerprints into the computer and ran them. The two hadn't spoken since Ray came in and asked if he could help. It was hard to tell what Doctor Langston was thinking as he watched the computer spin through fingerprints for matches.

"Two hits," Archie told Ray.

He moved over to the computer next to Archie. Two photographs appeared: the dead John Doe and a teenager.

"John Doe is only seventeen," Archie said. "The guy looks twenty-five. And this other donor is fifteen. You think the John Doe talked this kid into killing the family?"

"Too soon to tell.

"It says they escaped from Clark County Juvenile Detention Center the day before yesterday." Archie brought up the teenager's record and began scrolling through the list of charges. "Look at this kid's record, Ray." Archie scrolled through the years and years of charges against the teenager. "Donald Fritz, fifteen, and his rap sheet looks like some hardcore on death row! The last charge is aggravated assault. He put a kid in the hospital for putting down his favorite music artists."

"Let me guess. Marilyn Manson."

"No. Worse. Danzig."

"How is that worse?"

"Danzig never went commercial like Marilyn Manson. His lyrics are hard core violence."

Ray nodded. "It says he beat the kid up with a board. I wonder if he's moved up on the weapons scale." Ray picked up a phone receiver nearby and dialed an extension.

"Robbins," Doc Robbins said after the second ring.

"Do you have the X-Rays from the hospital yet?"

"On which vic?"

"Greg."

"No. Catherine hasn't returned my calls either."

"Okay. I'll go see what's going on."

"Is there something up?" Ecklie asked.

Ray and Archie turned. Ecklie was reading the file on the screen over their shoulders.

"I'll call you when I find Catherine, Doc." Ray hung up. "Our only suspect is fifteen."

"Do we need a warrant for him?"

"We have to find him first. He escaped juvenile detention."

"His last name is Fritz. Isn't that the last name of the family that lived at the house?"

Archie pulled up a file on the family. Ecklie was right. Ray looked back to Ecklie.

"You think he was related?"

"It's worth checking into. Archie, that's your job now. Ray, Catherine needs you to pick up the X-Rays and Doctor Ian said he has a copy of the medical file waiting at the front desk for you."

Ray left. Archie turned, watching Ecklie read the screen.

"Are you…"

Ecklie looked down at him. "Am I what?"

"Are you working the case?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Is that a problem?"

"No. I think it's cool."

Without comment, Ecklie went back to reading the screen.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

Catherine sat on the edge of the windowsill, staring out at Las Vegas. Dawn had risen like it always did, uncaring that Greg hung on a thin thread between life and death. The sound of the respirator mechanically breathing for him was hypnotic and had lulled her into sleep for an hour. The soft steps of a nurse coming in to check on him woke her. She couldn't bring herself to leave even to eat.

"Mom?"

Catherine turned, surprised to find Lindsay standing by her. Grissom stood behind her. Catherine stood and hugged Lindsay, and then Grissom. He surprised her by how tightly he hugged her back

"I stopped by your place and Lindsey asked to see him. I hope it was okay," Grissom told her as she stepped back.

Catherine let go, smiling at her daughter. She couldn't be any happier to see her child alive and healthy. She ran her fingers down her face, getting a bright smile in return.

"Of course it is. Why don't you talk to him for a while? I need to talk to Gil."

"Is he awake?"

"No. But I'm sure he can hear you."

Lindsey walked over to Greg. Catherine and Grissom left the ICU room. It opened into a central area with a circular desk in the middle. The nurses watched their critical patients from here, able to move to save their lives within seconds.

"Have you been able to find who did this?" Grissom asked.

She shook her head. "All I know right now is it was two teenagers, Gil." It made her as angry to tell Grissom that as it had when Nick had told her. "Two teenagers! What the hell?"

He watched her. Grissom reached out and laid his hand on her arm. "You have to stay focused, Catherine. He needs you to."

She started crying. "I want to kill them!"

Grissom held her. He'd never voice it, not even to Sara, but on the long flight from Rio de Janeiro to Las Vegas, he'd been having the same thought.

#

Robbins snapped X-Rays up on the light board. He picked up the medical file from a nearby table before turning to Nick, Ray, David, and Ecklie.

"Doctor Ian's report is just preliminary. Until the autopsy, I—"

"Doctor Robbins, let's focus on what's here, not what you're hoping you'll get," Ecklie snapped.

"I'm not hoping I'll get anything."

"Then stop killing Greg before he's dead!"

Ray, Nick, and David stared at the two, stunned to see either man fighting.

"I didn't mean it like that. I simply meant—"

"Until autopsy? That doesn't mean anything?"

"It just meant—"

"STOP IT!" David snapped, surprising everyone. He snatched the file away from Robbins and threw it open. "Doctor Ian reported that during post surgery he found more coagulation around the wounds on the lower extremities. Those wounds would have occurred first."

Robbins and Ecklie put their fight aside for the moment.

Nick referred to the case file he held. "There was less blood in the basement and it had dried completely before we got there. The directionality of the blood trail on the steps only goes up a few steps, but it indicates upward movement."

"So he was attacked in the basement," Ray surmised. "Probably was unconscious, and then went upstairs. Right?"

Nick nodded.

David flipped the page. "After that, he can't tell what order the injuries occurred. He found trace in the head wounds that he sent to us."

"I got that back," Ray said. "It was ceramic tile that matched the tile in the bathroom. I found chips in the floor tiles where the weapon hit. Most likely the transfer happened during the attack."

"That's all his preliminary says. The list of injuries is two pages long." David flipped past them to the last page. "Swelling of the brain continues. Hematoma presumed cause for patient becoming comatose at fourteen hundred and twelve hours."

David walked up to the light board and referenced the notes as he continued. "He says there were cleaved indentations on the skull and several bones at least seven millimeters deep. He believes a crowbar or similar tool was used to cause the most injury. Didn't Ecklie find a crowbar with Greg's DNA on it?" David looked back at Nick and Ray.

Both nodded.

"Donald's prints were on it. Hodges also matched the blood and hair on it to Greg," Ray answered.

David turned back to the report. "He found one gunshot wound, lower abdomen and was able to recover the bullet for us. Catherine's signature is here, so she must have taken it to Bobby. He lists the meds he has him on and the last entry…" David flips the pages back and shuts the file. "Okay. So that's it."

"What's on the last page?" Robbins asked.

"Nothing. We—"

"David, what is on the last page?" Ecklie demanded.

David looked at him, then the CSI in turn. "Mortality is highly probable."

"No. Not Greg. He's a tough kid," Nick said.

Ray looked at him. Nick shook his head.

"You don't know him. He'll make it through this."

"Nick, he has—"

"NO!" Nick stormed out of the morgue, adding, "I'm not letting another friend be murdered, damnit! DAMNIT!"

He shoved the door so hard it slammed against the wall.

Silence fell for several seconds. Ecklie finally turned and left.

"May I review the file?" Ray asked.

David gave it to him and he left too. Robins and David stood for several minutes.

"Thank you for stopping that argument," Robbins told David. "I don't know what got into me."

"I do. And you're welcome." David answered. "I need some air."

David left Robbins alone. The old physician walked over to a stool and sat down. He closed his eyes, and let himself cry. In his heart he knew they were going to another funeral soon, another co-worker fallen in duty, another life cut short for no good reason.

#

Bobby pulled the pistol from the bag, examining it. Fingerprint dust drifted from it – the one thing he hated about Ecklie's cases was he always went fingerprint dust happy.

He gently tapped the gun and when he was satisfied he'd gotten most off the gun, he ejected the clip and loaded three bullets. Bobby moved to the bullet tank and put his hand in. He called clear, fired the bullets, and then put the gun back in the evidence bag. Bobby fished out the bullets and moved over to a microscope. He'd just sat down when the door opened. Catherine walked in, stopping to put on gloves.

"Is this was Officer Carson's sidearm?"

She pointed at the one he'd just fired.

"Yeah." Bobby turned back to work.

"I brought this from the hospital."

Bobby turned, looking at the clear bag she held up. He got up and took it, looking over the bullet inside. He looked up at her.

"From Greg?"

She nodded.

"How is he? I haven't heard much."

Catherine smiled trying to force back the tears. They came anyway. Bobby put his arm around her shoulders.

"He's not going to make it," Catherine whispered.

"You don't know that."

"Bobby…" She stepped back, looking him in the eyes. "He won't survive this, Bobby. He wants to live, I know he does, but…"

"Hey. Hey, now." Bobby laid a hand on her hair. "Let's not give up on him until we have to, okay? Give him a chance, give him hope."

"He's in a coma. He doesn't know—"

"Have faith, Catherine. You gotta have faith in our friend. He is our friend, isn't he?"

"Yeah."

"Then don't give up on him until the time comes you haven't gotta choice."

She smiled.

"Good. Now let's talk bullets, okay?"

She nodded, smiling a little more. Bobby picked up the bag and walked over to the comparison microscope.

"You know this is going to take a while, Catherine."

"I'll wait. I can't go back and I don't want to go home."

"What about Lindsay?"

"Grissom got in. She's staying with him."

"How's he handling it?"

"It's Grissom. One can never tell."

Bobby nodded. "If you want to, I need comparison samples from the pistol. You want to do that?"

"Sure." She got up and walked over to the second evidence bag.

#

Sara stood in the doorway of the bathroom, staring at the floor. She didn't even try to hide her tears when Nick came up behind her. Nick leaned against the doorframe and looked at the ceiling. Suddenly he stood.

"Did you notice the door to the attic?"

Sara wiped her tears and turned, looking up. "No."

Nick walked under the door and had to hop to catch the chain dangling from the door. He pulled it down, moving out of the way when the ladder slid out. He turned to tell Sara to grab flashlights and found her waiting with them. Nick took one and they climbed into the attic. They started through the items, but before long Sara stopped.

"Nothing happened up here, Nick."

Nick turned to her. "Donald has the same last name as this family, right?"

"Yeah, but there was no familial DNA match to the family members."

"All the same, I think he's somehow connected to them. Since we didn't find any of Donald's sperm on the mother or teenagers, but we did find hair and skin under the nails of all family members, I think he was the one that talked the other teenager into attacking and killing them."

"Why? Why would he do that?"

Nick shrugged. "Why does anyone kill anyone anymore?"

She heard defeat in Nick's voice. Defeat she'd felt not so long ago. It had nearly driven her to the brink of insanity. She turned, needing to focus on something else.

"I'm sorry. I meant…" Nick walked up to her. "I meant, Sara, this kid has a long, long record. We don't know what set him off, just that the officer and Greg were caught in the middle of it. They weren't supposed to be here. The boy didn't plan on killing them."

"Yes he did."

"You can't know that."

She looked over her shoulder at Nick. "When he killed the officer and first attacked Greg, then yes… That was a wrong place, wrong time. But the second time? No. He knew exactly what he was doing. That's why there's so much blood in the bathroom. I bet, if Greg hadn't gone upstairs, he would have gone back to the basement to finish the job."

Nick stared at her. Quietly he replied, "Maybe so. That's all the more reason we have to find out how Donald Fritz is tied to this family. If we're ever going to convict him of murder, we need to find that connection."

She nodded, giving into Nick's hunch. She turned away, continuing to search the attic. Sara found a trunk buried under blankets and boxes of forgotten toys. The latch was locked.

"Nick. We need a crowbar. There's a trunk over here."

Nick hurried downstairs and returned with one. The two worked until the lock gave with a pop. They moved the stuff off the top and she pushed open the lid. The two stared at what lay inside – torn photographs, photographs in broken frames, burned photographs of Donald Fritz with this family. Nick picked up a photo album tucked at the back. Only photographs that had Donald in them were still in the album. The pictures followed him from age six to thirteen. For six years he lived with this family, grew with them, had birthdays and Christmases with them, went on family outings and vacations. And then, suddenly, they stopped. Donald ceased to exist in the Fritz family. What had happened? What had made the family try to expunge his existence from them completely?

At one point in his life, Donald Fritz, teenager murderer, had belonged to a seemingly loving family.

"Adopted you think?" Sara asked.

Nick shook his head. "I don't know. I'll go grab bags and a kit. Be right back."

Sara watched Nick disappear down the ladder before she turned back to the chest and started unloading it. She found report cards – the boy did well in most of his subjects all through grade and middle school. She pulled out a stack of blank books tied together and pulled the string off. Skimming the book she came to realize these were Donald Fritz's journals, starting as early as he had learned to write. They started off innocent enough, but slowly the tone became darker and darker. By age seven he was writing about visions and fantasy of killing people, often adding graphic details about their deaths. There were news clippings from around the world about teenagers going on murders sprees in schools and malls, of teenagers killing peers and adults. Scattered throughout the journals he regularly mentioned Emily, and spoke about how she told him he shouldn't think about these things or try these things. At first Sara thought she was a therapist, but that changed when she found the first page filled with her name. The last entry in the book was talking about how he'd killed a homeless man, how it felt, how he enjoyed it, how he hated Emily for telling him he was going to hell for what he'd done, and how he wished he could kill her too.

"Emily told you not to kill?" Sara mused.

She'd never heard of a serial killer with a voice that told them not to do harm.

She sat the journals aside and picked up the last item: a metal box with a three number combination. She fiddled with it until it opened. What she found inside gave her a giant piece of the puzzle.

Headlines from nine years ago reading: '_Serial Killer Keeps Las Vegas Up_,' '_Serial Killer Writes Paper And Calls Himself Glass_,' '_Family Of Three Attacked, Parents Killed, Surviving Boy In Critical Condition_.'

"Sara?"

She about jumped out of her skin as she sprung to her feet, scattering the box and its contents across the floor. Ecklie stood behind her holding evidence bags and her forensic kit.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay. Where's Nick?"

"We received a tip about Donald Fritz's location. Nick insisted on being there when the kid was arrested."

Sara looked down at the newspaper clippings. She knew she should feel sorry for the boy, but she couldn't find the sympathy anywhere in her. Sara knelt down, picking up the items and putting them in the box. Suddenly the world made no sense.

"He's fifteen!" Sara cried, springing to her feet and turning back to Ecklie. "A fifteen year old kid killed Greg!"

"He's not dead yet, Sara."

"Stop with the bullshit, Ecklie! He has a DNR. His healthcare advocate will—"

"I'm his advocate. He's not dead yet."

Sara stared at him. "You? Why would he choose you?"

"Because he didn't think I'd care." Ecklie sat the bags and kit down at Sara's feet.

"You would do that? You'd just pull the plug on him?"

"I told Ian to continue reviving him. I'll respect his wish not to be put on artificial support, but so long as he keeps breathing and coming back on his own, I'm not giving up on him."

"Respect? Respect that you'd let him die?"

"I'm already breaking the order by letting them revive him, Sara! He asked to never be revived more than twice. They're reviving him every hour now! He's dying and I know that, and as much as he annoys me and pesters me and makes me grit my teeth, I can't let him go! I actually like the kid. Do you have you any idea what kind of hell it's been having to decide to go against the kid's wishes because I'm too selfish to let him die?"

Sara stared. That was the most emotion she'd ever seen come out of Ecklie. "No. I didn't know any of that, Conrad."

He sighed, looking down. "I just wish… I just wish my wife would wake me up, tell me that all this was nothing but a nightmare, and I'd come to work later and find Greg being a pain in my ass. The last forty hours were just magically erased and none of this happened."

"So do I Conrad."

They stood in silence for seconds, but to both of them hours passed, enough time to reflect on what had just happened between them, what truths had been revealed about them both.

Ecklie held his hand out for the news clippings in her hand and held his hand out for them.

"Gloves," she reminded him.

He fished a pair from a hip pocket and she handed the clippings over when they were on. Ecklie looked through them.

"I remember this case," Ecklie told her. "I was level one when it happened. When I saw his pictures I kept thinking I'd seen it before, but didn't realize he'd just grown up." Ecklie shook his head. "The poor kid was found in blood. The killer must have been spooked, he never finished him, but his parents and sister were killed around him. It was… Hellish. No one could come out of that mess okay."

"He didn't. He murdered seven people."

Ecklie nodded. He handed the clippings back to Sara and walked to the ladder. He started down them, telling her, "I've posted four units here, and one of them is down here at the bottom of the ladder. Why don't you take a few hours off when you're done here? Grissom says you haven't gone to see Greg." Ecklie stopped with his head right above the floor. "Don't wait until it's too late, Sara."

"Okay."

Ecklie disappeared. She turned, going back to work.

**#**

Brass, Nick, and four officers approached a transient camp under a bridge. An officer walked over to two men and after a moment, they pointed in a direction. The group walked in the direction. They came around a 'box house' to find Donald Fritz writing on a cement column. He had almost covered the lower half of the column with 'Emily.'

He looked up, saw the officers, and bolted. The group ran after him, one officer radioing the chase in.

#

Sara walked into the hospital room, staring at Greg. It was the first time she'd seen him and it shook her seeing what the teenager had done to him.

Grissom was asleep in a recliner in the corner. She walked over to him and gave his arm a squeeze. He woke, looking up at her. Grissom turned his arm and their fingers locked together.

"He won't survive this… Will he?" she whispered.

Grissom started to answer.

Sara heard someone come up behind her and turned. A man and woman were entering. The woman stared at Sara and the man stared at Greg. Grissom stood up behind her, keeping a hold of her hand.

"Mister and Missus Sanders, this is my wife Sara. She works with your son."

Sara shook hands with the parents.

"Did Greg—" his mother began, but was cut off by the heart monitor going off.

Nurses and Doctor Ina ran in ad the couples were pushed out of the room, into the area of the nurses station. They stood at the window separating the nurses station from the room, watching the medical staff trying to revive Greg.

Sara watched Greg's mother start sobbing. Her husband wrapped his arms around her, holding her, but never taking his eyes off his son. Sara moved close to Grissom, letting him put his arm around her. What horror it had to be to helplessly watch your son died before your eyes.

She looked at Greg.

What horror it was to watch one of her oldest friends die before her eyes.

#

Donald raced through a yard, leapt a fence into an alley, and hit the ground running. Only Nick and one officer had been able to keep up with him.

Donald rounded a corner into an alley as two squad cars sped into it from the opposite end. Donald faked left then turned right. Using one hand to leverage himself, he vaulted over a fence into a backyard. The officer and Nick were right behind. They land in a yard with two angry Dobermans caged in a kennel.

Donald grabbed the latch of the gate as he passed, throwing it open. Nick slammed it shut as he passed, stopping the dogs from charging out. Donald scaled a fence, the sole of his show passing through Nick's hand.

#

Donald had managed to ditch Nick and the officer. He turned into an alley as a police car turned into it and barreled toward him. Donald scaled a privacy fence and dropped right into Nick and the officer's waiting arms. The two wrestled with him.

Across from them, sitting on top of a derelict doghouse, sat the girl in pigtails and pink dress. She sadly shook her head, disappointed in Donald.

"I told you this would happen, Donald. I told you not to kill. Why didn't you listen to me?" the pigtail girl asked.

Donald went down screaming, "Shut up you fucking cunt!" Donald grabbed anything at hand to beat them off.

They finally got him on his stomach and Nick held Donald's hands on his back while the officer cuffed him. The click of the handcuffs around the teenager's wrists was a bittersweet sound to Nick.

#

Doctor Ian stepped back from the bed. Quietly he told a nurse, "Time of death thirteen hundred and forty-six hours."

"No." Greg's mother said, taking a step toward them. "You can't stop! You have to keep trying. He doesn't want to die! KEEP TRYING!"

She made a lunge for the door, but her husband pulled her back. She smacked him, pounded her fist on his chest, but he held her.

"No! Greg, no! Greg!"

He quickly hurried her out of ICU. Sara watched in a mix of awe and horror. It was so much different to watch the behavior on this side of the death. Sara walked into the room, moving slowly along the bed. The last nurse left was shutting equipment off. She didn't even look at Sara when she left. Sara felt Grissom behind her and then his hand on her hip. She leaned back, against him.

"Did you feel it?" she asked.

Grissom rested his cheek against her temple. "Feel what?"

She closed her eyes. "The moment someone dies, there's this moment of peace. It's like the world, for just a moment, holds its breath. Something amazing happens, something you can't feel or see or touch. It's only for a few seconds. And then…" Sara opened her eyes, turning to him. "And then chaos."

He brushed his hand down her face. He nodded. "No. I didn't feel it."

She leaned into him, holding him. Grissom wrapped his arms around her. She didn't care if he didn't feel it. She had when Greg let go of life for the last time. She was glad she'd felt it. It had become her way of knowing when someone was departing with a complete life. And she knew Greg had lived a very complete life.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

Nick sat in a chair in the hall, staring at his cell phone's screen. Grissom had sent the entire lab the text message: CSI Sanders passed away at 1346.

Nick didn't look at Brass as he sat down beside him. He looked down the hall instead. He saw Wendy being comforted by Hodges. Mandy and two other women were crying and comforting each other. Archie sat in his lab, staring at the floor. Wherever Catherine was, he was sure she was crying.

"Damned thing, this," Brass said.

Nick agreed, but he didn't verbalize it.

"We still have to interview the kid, Nick. Even with this." Brass held up his cell phone.

Nick glanced at it. He couldn't read it, but he knew Brass was referring to the text message. Nick's eyes drifted to the case file he'd dropped on the floor. Photographs and report pages were scattered across the hall, forgotten in the moment of shock that had hit Nick when he read the message.

"You want to hand this to someone else?"

"No."

"Then what? I mean, I understand wanting to shut down, because believe me, Nick, if I could just get my car right now and drive as fast as I can to anywhere but here, I would. But…"

Nick didn't respond. He would have gladly given anyone this case rather than deal with it for one more minute.

Brass continued. "Nick, you have to close this case. You and I both know Greg would have done it for either of us. He was nuts about closing cases. Got in a bad mood when he couldn't solve one."

Nick nodded. Yes. Not solving a case put Greg in a bad mood for several days. Nothing could drag him out of it, except for closing the next one. So he inhaled a deep, lung-expanding breath, put his phone back on his belt, knelt to collect the file contents, and put the file back together. He stood, turning to Brass.

The old detective stood and started walking. "Now, juvvy gave him to us for seventy-two hours, alright, Nick?"

Nick nodded.

"Okay. So take your time. Walk out for a breather if you need to. Remember, Greg won't get his justice if you don't do this by the book, and something tells me this punk is going to push our buttons if you let him. Don't let him."

Nick nodded.

#

Donald Fritz was led in by two policemen, and followed by Brass. He was in an orange jumpsuit, shackled and handcuffed. And had no child advocate. The policemen sat him down opposite of Nick. The child stared at Nick, but the CSI saw nothing child-like in the boy's eyes. His dark brown eyes were the cold, dispassionate insignia of a killer with an unquenchable thirst for blood.

Armed and with surprise on his side, it was obvious now that Greg had never stood a chance against this child.

"What are we waiting for?" Donald asked.

"You're child advocate."

Brass started to answer.

Donald laughed. "I bit her. Scratched the next cunt they sent in. Put the balls of the third in his gut. I don't want, and I don't _need_, not fucking advocate. I can talk for myself, asshole."

"He demanded emancipation after we brought him in, so now he's to be treated as an adult," Brass informed Nick. "And he's waived his right to council. Says he knows enough law to represent himself."

Nick looked up at Brass, then down at Donald. This kid had a set of stones on him that his age hadn't quite caught up to.

"Tell me where you were two nights ago, Donald," Nick began.

"You know that answer, or we wouldn't be talking…" Donald leaned in, setting his cuffed hands on the table. Nick glanced at the boy's hands. They were smooth, untouched by life. How could hands so young know how to kill someone? "Would we, Mister Stokes?"

"How do you know my name?"

Donald laughed. "A rat told me."

Nick suddenly found himself glad Donald knew his name. He hoped the teenager would escape again, and come looking for him. He hoped he would be armed with anything, even a stick, anything that would give him to shoot to defend himself. Anything to keep him from breathing.

"Your fingerprints are on the guns and the crowbar used to kill eight people. I—"

"I only killed one with the crowbar." A dreamy look came over Donald's face. "I hope I get another like that one. Greg didn't cry for help, he didn't beg for his life."

Nick looked at the case file. He wanted to know… What did… "So you knew Greg Sanders? The CSI you killed?"

"Nope. Same rat that told me your name, told me his."

"Is that why you killed him? Because you were told to?" Nick lifted his eyes. He couldn't stop glaring at the teenager.

"No. I killed him because I wanted to." Donald closed his eyes. "It felt so good to feel his bones break. His blood was warm. He—"

Nick couldn't listen to this. He quickly changed the subject, if only to keep himself from leaping across the table and breaking the kid's neck. "You said he didn't beg. What did he do?"

Donald looked at him, grinning. "He _fought_! It was such a turn on! I thought I'd finished him in the basement, but he was a smart fucker. He played dead. He tricked me. Most people aren't so good at that, but they only get to do it once. The second time, I didn't stop until his head caved in." Donald chucked. "I even shot up the closet I'd tossed him with the rest of the trash, just to be sure."

Nick leaned in. "Greg lived for three days, Donald. That will make the charges worse for you." Nick told him so he knew he hadn't killed Greg like he'd planned. He'd messed it up, again.

Donald slowly leaned forward, stopped when an officer grabbed his shoulder. He and Nick were face-to-face, mere inches from each other.

"I've never respected someone as much like I did Greg." Donald sat back. "I want another one just like him. Not those whiny, sniveling fuckers that beg and pray and barely put up a fight. Someone who wants to live and fights for it!"

Nick sat back, because if he didn't, he'd lunge across the table and try breaking Donald's neck. He knew Greg wanted to live and killed him anyway? This child was so far gone not even the Devil would want him.

Nick looked down at the file his hand was on. He wanted to end the interview now, but there was no guarantee if he left and came back that Donald would be so willing to talk. He had to continue.

He heard Brass clear his throat and looked at him. He was watching Nick. Did he know? Nick looked back at Donald.

"Why did you kill your family, Donald?"

Donald sat back, staring off across the room. "They weren't my family."

"They were your foster family since you were six."

Donald grinned. It was chilling to see the child grin, to see his raw sadistic pleasure. "My family was murdered. Have you seen the pictures? The man cut out my father's heart and slit him open like a pig. He raped my mother as he strangled her. Did the same to my sister." Donald looked Nick in the eyes. "He told me about it. Told me he left me alive to carry on his work. He wanted that family dead."

"How does your parent's murderer tell you to do these things? He's been dead for four years."

"In my head." Donald stabbed as his temples with his forefingers and then let out a peal of sadistic laughter. "Long live Harris! Long live Klebold!"

Nick wasn't about to give into the psychopath's worship of his teenage heroes.

"Why were you writing Emily when we found you? Who is Emily?"

Donald laughed. Nick saw something in it though. The name bothered Donald.

"Donald, who's Emily? How is she connected to this?"

"Stop saying her name," Donald snarled.

"I want to know who Emily is."

Donald glared at Nick. If he'd had a weapon handy, Nick knew Donald would have used it on him.

"Don't say her name!"

Nick internalized his smile of vengeance. He'd found something the child killer feared. The anger in him was going to use that fear to stab Donald's cold heart until he had an answer or was pulled from the room.

Nick leaned in. "Who. Is. Emily?"

"Stop saying her name!"

"Tell me who Emily is!"

Donald looked past Nick, into the hall. The pigtailed girl stood at the glass, clutching her terry cloth cat to her chest with one hand and pressing her other hand against the glass. She looked close to tears.

The girl mouthed 'good-bye' before she turned and walked away.

"Wait," Donald said. "No. Wait. Emily, wait!"

Emily walked around a corner without looking back.

Nick glanced back but saw nothing. He looked back at Donald's face. He was seeing something he thought was real and terrified him. But Nick couldn't let this child slip away on an insanity plea.

"Donald, who is—"

"When you first see Emily, you will fear her, when Emily comes once more, you will breathe no more."

Nick knew that phrase. He opened his file and pulled out several photographs with that phrase from the kitchen wall, the bathroom mirror, and torn into Greg's back. Nick slapped the photographs on the table, watching Donald recoil from the photographs. Nick fought smiling at seeing he was hurting the teenager, digging deep into Donald with his one fear: Emily.

"Who is Emily?" Nick demanded.

"STOP SAYING HER NAME!" Donald lunged at Nick, his arms outstretched to grab Nick by the throat.

Nick leapt out of his chair, keeping clear of the murder's hands.

"We're done," Nick told the officers when they finally got Donald in the chair.

The two wrestled him to his feet and led him out. Nick watched Donald led past. His cold, killer behavior was back. He lunged at people as he passed, and laughed when they jumped away in surprise or fear. At the top of his lungs he started singing the lyrics of 'I wanna be an airborne ranger.'

"The jury will believe he's insane. He won't go to jail, will he?" Nick asked Brass.

Brass sighed. "I hope they won't, Nick, but honestly… He could easily fool them with that charade. He had me convinced with that Emily bit."

Nick sighed. Unfortunately, he knew the child was insane. Greg wasn't going to get his justice after all.

#

Catherine sat on the back step of her house, head against a column, staring at the lawn. She knew she should go to bed, tomorrow's shift was five hours away, but she couldn't sleep. She had reached a point where she wanted to cry, but there just weren't any tears left.

"Here, Mom," Lindsay said as she sat down next to Catherine.

She looked down at the mug of tea Lindsay held out to her.

"Thank you, but no, honey."

"Mom, you have to sleep. You have to work tonight."

"I know, sweety. I just can't." Catherine looked back at the lawn.

Lindsay sat the mug down and then scooted close, wrapping her arms around Catherine. Catherine lifted her arm around her daughter, holding her close and tight.

"I'm going to miss him, Mom. Who's going to tutor me in physics now?"

Catherine didn't answer. She didn't know answers to anything right now.

"I'll take a nap with you if you go lay down at least," Lindsay offered.

Catherine smiled at her. She brushed back Lindsay's bangs, nodding.

"Okay."

The two got up and went inside.

#

Nick walked out of the bathroom to his bedroom, toweling his hair dry. He tossed the towel in the hamper as he passed it and then crawled into bed. It took him a few minutes to get comfortable. He closed his eyes, an attempt to force sleep to come. But when he did that, he could only see Greg lying in the closet under the bodies, slowly dying before his eyes. Nick turned, tried to get comfortable and attempted again. He ended up staring at the wall until his alarm went off.

**#**

David wheeled in a gurney with a body bag, stopping it next to an autopsy table. On the opposite side stood Ray and Robbins, both wearing scrubs overlaid with rubber gowns, long rubber gloves and a plastic facemask ready to lower. David opened the bag, revealing Greg still in bandages. Carefully the three men moved him from the bag to the autopsy table. David pushed the gurney away and then went into the back to change for autopsy. The two doctors began removing bandages. David returned and the three finished quickly.

"Do you need to photograph the injuries again?" Robbins asked Ray.

"Ecklie said it… No."

"Okay. Then we're going to bathe him."

"May I do that?"

"Yes." Robbins picked up a sponge from a table and handed it over.

Ray took it, staring at Greg's face. Without looking he reached up and pulled the hose down from above, depressing the lever on the side. A gentle stream of warm water flowed from the nozzle.

Robbins didn't comment on the gentle care Ray took as he began washing Greg's hair.

"We closed your case, Greg," Ray told Greg. "We're hoping the teenager doesn't get off on an insanity plea, but… We'll see. It's been very quiet around the lab without you. We're going to leave your desk like it is until we hire another CSI. Catherine and Nick are dragging their feet on it, but we're doing fine right now with just the four of us…"

Robbins laid a hand on David's shoulder and guided him toward the doors. David kept lancing back, confused by what was happening. In the hall Robbins stopped by a hamper to start pulling off his apron and smock.

"What are we doing?"

"Going to get a cup of coffee."

"But… We can't leave a CSI with the body. We have to—"

"He needs the time, David. You need a cup of coffee. Come on." Robbins started walking toward the elevators.

David quickly obeyed. Ray hadn't said much during all this, just kept working. He'd never thought that maybe the laureate might actually be grieving, not until he'd begun talking to Greg.

On the elevator David stared at the glowing button. "I'm going to miss him."

Robbins heaved a heavy breath. "Yeah. Me too."

**

* * *

The girl asked:**

**But if you also knew exactly when and why you'd die,**

**Wouldn't you do anything to stop it?**

**Anything?**

* * *

The large office contained three desks. Nick's memorabilia was scattered across the top of one, along with a stack of case files, his spider's biosphere. It was cluttered, but not as bad as it had been known to become.

A second was Doctor Langston's personal effects. A large desk mat with a calendar was the focal point. A neat stack of case files sat in a wire basket atop a two-drawer filing cabinet. Behind the desk were three floor-to-ceiling shelves that were loaded down with books on various topics.

In a chair in front of the third desk sat seven-year-old Emily Patterson. She was small for her age, and looked five. She had bright blond hair pulled back in pigtails that curled and bounced with every small movement. Her dark blue eyes watched everything around her with wonder of someone who had seen it often, but never took the world for granted. She wore a pink dress with 'Princess' spelled out in flashing sequins. On her lap sat a stuffed terry clothe cat, and hanging from the arm of the chair was a Dora The Explorer backpack. And she stared intensely at the very much alive Greg Sanders sitting behind the desk before her.

Neither moved nor spoke. Greg was having a difficult time processing the very vivid description of how he was supposed to die in two hours. He didn't know what to make of what she knew about his killer, or where evidence to capture him would be found.

She was adorable, and it would be easy to place trust in her. Greg had always been superstitious, even believed people could have premonitions, but why she claimed to have seen this was not something he could accept out of hand. He needed proof. He needed more than a story that a child bombarded with violent images daily could make up.

"So…" Greg leaned on his desk, looking at his desk. "You're telling me you know this because you're an Indigo child?"

"Yes," she answered.

Greg looked at her. He'd heard of Indigo children. It was a New Age belief that children were being born who were the next evolutionary step, and possessed psychic abilities.

"How do you know you are one?" Greg asked.

"I just do."

"You know there is no empirical evidence to prove that Indigo children exist."

"There was a time when to believe in God was heresy. People were killed for believing in one god. Yet people still did and without proof God existed. Even today, people believe in this God that no one has empirical evidence exists. Is believing in Indigo children so far from this blind faith?"

While her comparison was excellent, it didn't convince him. There were still too many questions. "And you expect me to believe that your parents let you come here alone in the middle of the night?"

Emily shook her head, making her curls bounce merrily. "If you know about my kind, you know we have to often disobey authority because they don't understand what we know, or how we know it. My mom doesn't know I'm here. We have had unfortunate experiences with other officers of the law in the past. If she knew I had come here tonight to tell you about this, it would have only upset her. I don't have a father. He left when I was three because what I told him scared him. My mom tries to understand what I tell her but often times what I tell her frightens her."

"Frankly, Emily, I'm unnerved by what you've told me. Most people don't want to know when they're going to die! What made you think I would?"

"I didn't think you would _want_ to know. I _needed_ you to know so you can avoid it, Greg. I _need_ you to help me save other people's lives. You can't do that if you're dead."

Greg smiled. That was sound logic – if it were true. "So why me, Emily? What makes me so special?"

Emily smiled. It was hard to believe a child with such a bright, contagious smile held such dark secrets. "Because you _want_ to believe, and I _need_ you to. We need each other for similar yet very different reasons."

Greg sat back, staring at her. She didn't show any signs of impatience like most children her age. She was truly unique, so perhaps her claim that she was an Indigo child was correct. She was right about one thing; he did want to believe in her.

"If I choose to take the extra precaution as you've suggested, I won't be killed?"

Emily nodded, bouncing her pigtails.

"And no one told you this was going to happen? This isn't a threat?"

She shook her head, bouncing her pigtails again. If the gravity of her story hadn't been so profound, he would have been amused by how more adorable it made her look.

Greg decided he could at least take precaution tonight; there was no harm in that.

Emily suddenly stood up and picked up a pen and paper. "This is the address." Emily wrote it and handed him the paper. "Be sure to ask for at least three more police officers to meet you there. Tell them someone there is impersonating an officer – it's Donald. He's still going to escape, that has to happen tonight. But you know where to find him next, and he won't kill anyone else after tonight."

"Why does he write your name everywhere?"

"I've known Donald since I was born. I've tried talking to him, to convince him not to hurt people, but he won't listen to me."

"Talk to him?"

"Donald is an Indigo child like me, but he never had anyone who believed in him. We don't want to let this happen to him, but he is beyond our help."

"We who?"

"The other Indigo children."

Greg leaned on the desk. He couldn't believe he was actually letting himself buy into any of this. He looked up when she laid a warm little hand on his arm. She smiled.

"It's okay. You don't have to believe right away, Greg. You just have to live. I just want you to live. Can you believe that much?"

Greg sighed. He nodded.

"Nothing wrong with a little precaution, I guess," he admitted.

She nodded her bouncing pigtails.

"Greg, tonight is already gearing up to be a crazy night," Catherine said as she came into the office. She looked up, seeing Emily. She stopped, smiling at her. "Hi there."

Emily smiled a little. She put on her backpack and picked up her toy cat. She walked around and whispered something in Greg's ear, then walked out of the office. Greg smiled; looking at the paper she'd given him.

"Do you have a 3123 Roper in that stack, Catherine?" Greg asked.

"Who was that?"

Greg looked up at her. "Long story. Don't you have a 3123 Roper? Gunshots reported?"

She looked at the call slips and stared at the call. She pulled it out, looking down her nose at him.

"How did you know about this one?"

Greg stood and took it from her. That was one truth. He stared at it.

"You look really worried. Do you know someone at this address?"

"Not yet," Greg told her. He turned and grabbed his coat. He walked up to her, looking her in the eyes. "While I'm at this scene, Catherine, if at any time I don't answer my phone or radio back for more than ten minutes, come for me. Don't wait."

"Why are you acting weirder than normal?"

"Promise me. Please?"

"Okay. I promise."

"And I know I don't say it enough, but you're awesome. Next to Grissom, I've enjoyed working with you."

"Enjoyed? Are you going somewhere?"

"I hope not."

He gave her a quick hug and left the office. She was stunned by the conversation.

"Oh!" Greg appeared in the door again. "I almost forgot… You might want to skip the coffee until after the car accident call you're going to. You'll just spill it all down the front of you. And tell Nick to ask Hodges to meet him at 6592 Angelica Court before he sends him to help David. He'll need help getting a door off. Have a safe night, Catherine."

"Greg, what's…" She stopped because he'd already left.

Catherine looked at the calls, fishing out the car accident.

"Catherine.

She jumped, startled by Nick's voice. He chuckled.

"Drink too much caffeine already?"

"Greg's acting strange."

"Oh. That's normal."

She almost commented, but then changed her mind. She handed the two bottom call slips to Nick and started to leave. She stopped suddenly, but didn't turn around.

"Nick?"

"Hm?"

"Are one of those 6592 Angelica Court?"

She heard the papers rustle. "Yeah."

Catherine looked at the sheet in her hand. "Have Hodges meet you there before you send him to help David."

"Oh… Okay. How did you know—"

She left the office, telling him, "It's going to be a long, long night, Nick. Long night."

Nick laughed, and then looked down at his papers. "It's going to be a strange night." He grabbed his vest off the back of his hair and headed off to his first crime scene.

#

Twenty minutes later the graveyard CSI heard Greg call, "Sanders to dispatch."

"Dispatch. Go ahead."

"10-78.3123 Roper. Possible 10-27-1 and officer down. Suspect in the area and at large. Teenager, fifteen, brown hair. Suspect is to be considered armed and dangerous."

"Dispatch to all units. Nearest units to 3123 Roper, report to scene. Dispatch out."

Greg sat in his Tahoe at the end of Roper Drive, staring at the house. He picked up the slip of paper Emily had written on, staring at the heart that dotted the 'i.' He looked at the house again. Donald was walking back up the sidewalk to the front door. He had seen the boy when he'd come around the corner, sitting in the police cruiser. He'd almost gunned it and driven on toward the house. He'd almost ignored everything Emily said. And most likely, that is what got him killed in Emily's vision.

But his promise to Emily made him hit the brakes and pull over. He watched Donald go back inside, carrying a crowbar in his hand -- the one that would have ended Greg's life. The words of a little pigtail girl were all that stood between Greg and his would-be murderer. It chilled Greg as he realized he was literally brushing against Death, and, surprisingly, Death was letting him.

"Thank you, Emily," Greg whispered.


End file.
